First of all, I am grateful to Readers’ Favorite for giving me the opportunity to become a part of their review team, as well as write pieces related to the writing life. Readers’ Favorite accepts reviewers from any part of the globe provided that they have the required competency in English. While under quarantine, I thought of sharing a personal essay on the brief anatomy of my formation as a writer. With an emphasis on my early years, please bear with me on the boring parts.

I was born in the Philippines in the early years of martial law under Ferdinand Marcos. My father worked as an auditor for a petroleum gas company, while my mother was a cosmetologist who settled to become a homemaker after her marriage to my old man. I describe my parents as penniless aristocrats. We didn’t have much, but we were well-cared for and our basic needs were met. I was the middle child in a brood of three. I was too young to understand the geopolitics of the times, and I could only hear grownups talking about curfews, demonstrations, and rounding up people with tattoos for questioning. As far as I remember, my father religiously followed the local ordinance. He came home on time and always has his government ID pinned to avoid hassles in the event of checkpoints.

The martial law years were a time of idealism and rebellion for the younger set. Many college students were lured by leftist principles that they dropped out of school to take up arms. But it was also a time when the finest in music and entertainment blossomed as a result of the suppression. Many local independent films that tackled the social and political system of the time earned accolades abroad but didn’t gain solid footing at home. Other artists chose to play it safe by keeping away from political themes. In music, “Manila Sound” came to its height where people found comfort and entertainment in the catchy tunes of local bands. The regime approved of “feel good” movies that tackled rags to riches themes, cheesy romantic plots, and slapstick comedy.

As a child growing up in the seventies, I was weaned on popular anime about superhero mechs. Each day of the week featured a popular robot show that tickled children’s fancy. At five o’clock in the afternoon, we would sit down glued to the television to watch episodes of Mazinger Z, Daimos, Mekanda, UFO Grendizer, Getter Robo, Voltes V, and Balatack. Many argued that these shows were not suitable for children, yet somehow, these shows sparked my imagination and creativity. I started cultivating the habit of drawing robots and telling oral tales about mechs. Then I had my first taste of martial law intervention when Ferdinand Marcos banned the showing of these anime. He claimed it purportedly distracted children from school work and that such shows were too violent. Feelings were divided, and as for me, I could only sulk in the corner of my room.

But I never stopped imagining. Whenever my parents would take us shopping for clothes and sometimes toys, I would prefer to pick up storybooks and coloring books. My dad helped to instill my love for stories, as he would grab a chair and sit by our bedside to tell us a story before we went to bed.